The Fiend in the Fairytale
by macrauchenia
Summary: "You're just like the boy who never grew up, Doctor Sweets. Don't you know you can't live in Neverland forever?" The psychologist swallowed thickly. The maniac had no idea how hard those words hit each heartstring. Or maybe he did, and that's why Sweets was forced to witness the unwinding of a strained childhood.
1. Chapter 1

**Timeframe/Info About This Fic: **I suppose anytime in Season 8  
**Disclaimer:** Bones and its characters belong to their rightful owners.  
**Authors Note: **Urgh, this was supposed to be a oneshot revolving around a certain confrontation, but that didn't happen. Now it's a short story. Dedicated to **Joanne Novak** for just being an awesome person, sending me the best review/PM conbination ever, and being a part of the best fandoms in the world. You like Sweets and pirates, right? xD

* * *

"What are we doing here again?" Dr. Sweets scanned the wide-ceiling room with a single sweep of his slightly upturned face.

"The case," Agent Booth gruffly replied, concentrating solely on a display case by the wall.

"We're in an unopened Jeffersonian exhibition room," the psychologist countered flatly. "The _pirate_ exhibit," he glanced back over at the life-sized reconstruction of a pirate vessel that took up most of the large room. Large bands of yellow caution tape ran around the ship and across several of the unfinished displays filled with recovered figureheads and overflowing chests of pirate lore. Lit by the bright skylights above them, the room almost looked like it came from a storybook; the doctor had a feeling it wouldn't quite be so cheery in the dark.

Booth didn't seem to hear him. "Do you think Parker would enjoy seeing this once it's finished? It's not too weird, right?"

"Well, pirates are certainly a fascinating topic for young children. Their past rebellious nature is appeali—wait!" Sweets paused for a moment and turned back to Booth with an open-mouthed frown. "Please tell me you didn't 'officially' force yourself into a closed exhibit for sightseeing and brought me along for a second opinion." The psychologist resisted the urge to groan in exasperation. "I thought this was about a case. Besides, how would I know what Parker would like?"

The older agent spared a sour look in Sweets' direction. "You are only a few years older than him."

In his frustration, the younger's colloquial speech slipped through without thought. "Dude, I told you the age jokes weren't even funny. _I'm over twenty-four years old." _Sweets frowned. There was a beat of silence then a slow smile spread over the young man's face. "But pirates are pretty cool."

Booth suppressed a chuckle. For someone who claimed to be pretty all-knowing when it came to the minds of others, Sweets was pretty bad at recognizing his own youth. Certain actions the psychologist performed were very similar to what his son did.

"But is there another reason we came here?"

Agent Booth nodded once and turned back to the younger doctor. "Yeah, one of the squinterns labeled cause of death as a long, thin slice across the neck." Booth drew his finger quickly across his jugular in a cutting motion. "When the Bug-man swabbed the wound for whatever the stuff he looks for, he found it was a sharp tipped item made of iron that had rusted."

"A nail?" Sweets offered with a shrug.

Booth shook his head. "No, Hodgins didn't think so. He said the metal was forged several hundred years ago. Our best bet is to look for something old."

"A decorative artifact?" the younger wondered aloud. "Our victim _was _a rare relics dealer for the Jeffersonian. Perhaps it was a deal gone bad?"

"Or maybe just an old weapon," Booth interrupted, pointing at the partially empty display case he had previously been scrutinizing. It was the pirate weapons portion of the exhibit, filled with rusting jeweled daggers and partially torn scabbards lying neatly in black foam. However, the central piece was missing, leaving only a faint indentation of a thin hook. The psychologist ogled for a moment at the case.

Sweets' lips parted slightly in confused awe. "Our victim was killed by a _pirate?_"

The older glanced sideways at the younger man. "Now you see why I asked about Parker."

"I may have to get back to you on the pirates then," the psychologist muttered, casting one more daunted look at the towering pirate ship.

* * *

They were heading back to the Hoover building and were on speaker phone with Hodgins, who seemed overjoyed to know the possible identity of the weapon.

"Let me get this straight—he was killed by a _pirate? _Woah._" _The ginger's gleeful voice filled the cab of Booth's black SUV.

"Could the hook be our possible murder weapon?" Booth interrupted quickly. He was determined to end the conversation with the entomologist as soon as possible.

Hodgins was silent for a moment. "The shape of the incision would be consistent with a thin slashing to the side with a tearing or a tugging motion from a sharp tip. I can't be for sure since the only hook I could use for analysis is missing from the Jeffersonian." The forensic scientist almost sounded wistful at the loss of a testing weapon. "I've never killed a test subject with a hook before."

"Is there anything we can do, Hodgins, to further prove _this _hook was the murder weapon? It'd make things go faster, that's for sure."

There was a rhythmic clicking on the other side as if the Squint was tapping something in deep thought. "Perhaps you could try swabbing the empty display spot. There might be remnants of the rust there."

"Were the rust particulates slightly green?" Sweets interrupted for the first time. Booth sent a questioning look at the psychologist.

"Particulates?" he mouthed. Sweets shrugged in response. "You've been hanging around the Squints for too long."

"Yeah, they were. Why?"

"There was a dagger that came from the same area as the hook did and it had greenish rust." Sweets' lips pursed tightly as he tried to summon up the location in his mind. "They both came from wreckage off the coast of Santa Marzda in the Caribbean." Booth raised an eyebrow and Sweets shrugged again. "What? I told you—I used to be in to pirates. I was curious, so I read the information cards."

There was another pause and then a triumphant crow burst from the phone that nearly caused Booth to swerve into the car speeding beside him. The female driver in the small hybrid next to them slammed on the brakes with violent honking and unimaginative hand gestures.

_"Hodgins," _he growled, trying to calm his racing heart. "This had better be good. I almost hit a lawyer in a Smartcar."

"Ah, sorry, I forgot you were driving. Anyway, our little shrink just had his first King of the Lab moment."

"Really?" Sweets' excited voice betrayed his usually calm demeanor. "Awesome!"

"What did you figure out?" Booth overrode the psychologist's enthusiastic ramblings with an annoyed click of his tongue. He had been helping out the bugboy for years and he had never been claimed King of the Lab. He wasn't jealous, _of course, _but that didn't mean he needed his partner to have a swelled head with Hodgins's nonsense either.

"Santa Marzda is an area that is known for it more chloric seas. It doesn't have as much chlorine as the local community pool, but the water has more chlorine than the surrounding areas. While the salt water speeds up the oxidation process, the chlorine leaches out certain chemicals in the iron that makes the—"

"Can you give me the Sparknotes version, Hodgins?"

"Yeah, basically, the rust is greenish—not red, like normal rust—due to the chlorine in the water. If Sweets is right that the hook and the dagger both came from the same area, and the rust residue on the dagger matches the traces I found on the victim, then it's safe to say that the stolen hook was the murder weapon." The entomologist paused and it sounded as if he was fighting of grins on the other side. "I can't believe our guy had his throat slashed by a pirate."

"Yep, that's cool. Gotta go, Hodgins." The particulate master tried to interject himself into another tangent regarding piracy, but Booth cut him off sharply. He quickly slammed his cellphone shut and shoved it back in his suit. He glanced to his right to see Sweets still smirking, most likely about his new royalty title.

"So, what would make someone dress up like a real-life pirate and slash some antique dealer's throat?"

The triumphant grin slipped off of the profiler's face immediately as he pondered the question. "I can think of two possibilities. First, he or she was unfairly jilted by the victim and desired revenge. It provides a motif and the attack could either have been calculated rage or accidental." Sweets frowned. "Though, it would be difficult to try to hold the weapon at the right angle to cut." He curled his left index finger into a crude hook and tried to drag it across his neck with his right hand.

"Now you're starting to sound like Bones." He rolled his eyes. "And what about the other profile?"

"The first is much more likely, but it is also possible this is a themed attack. The stolen weapon is an authentic pirate hook from an upcoming exhibit. The person who would have been in charge of it was murdered in a stereotypical 'pirate-y way.'" The words were put in air quotes, since they were both fairly certain it wasn't a technical term. "It could be that the killer is obsessed with being some sort of pirate—whether that is the rebellious nature or element of freedom or wealth. Society and pop culture have dramatically romanticized the basic concept of piracy to where it's hardly discernible from its true, harsh form of scurvy and public executions." Sweets mashed his lips together in a thin line and shrugged.

"So you're saying our perp might have read too many fantasy books when he was younger?"

Sweets shrugged again. It's entirely possible, though I think the former profile would be more fitting. A fixation on piracy is…unusual to say the least."

"Are you telling me people can turn into ninjas and cowboys too just because they want to?"

"No," Sweets scowled. "But certain fantasy jobs such as police officers, spies, and even federal agents are coveted by people who wish to escape their own mundane lives. In facts, many studies have hinted that this internal desire is where sexual role-play first deve—"

"Woah, Sweets. Hold up before this gets too weird."

"It's totally natural for peop—"

"So, pirates! Were you a fan when you were, well, a little bit younger?" Sweets regarded the older agent with a thin, amused smile as if to say he knew the agent was sloppily trying to change the subject. For once, he decided to drop the issue as well. "I _loved _pirates when I was a kid. Blackbeard, Long John Silvers, Captain Morgan—those guys were awesome. But my favorite was always Captain Hook."

Sweets listened quietly to the FBI agent's happy reminiscing without interruptions. He was hoping that maybe all of this pirate talk would lead to a glimpse of Booth's elusive past, but he wasn't going to push it.

"I always liked the Neverland Boys more than Captain Hook," Sweets offered when Booth had turned a curious eye on the shrink for the latter's opinion on piracy.

"Really? I thought he was always so classy. Peter Pan really was the villain—not Hook."

The younger shrugged with a smile. "I haven't thought about those characters for a long time. I sort of grew out of them." Booth regarded Sweets with a slightly horrified, slightly amused expression.

He was about to release a snarky remark about the psychologist still having time to grow when a loud grinding noise tore the words from his mouth. His gaze darted immediately to the driver's rearview mirror while Sweets twisted in his seat to try to see what was happening. The Smartcar driven by the aggressive lawyer had been clipped in the back by a truck, whose driver was partially hidden by his sun blinders. Still honking relentlessly, the tiny car spun off into a guardrail, striking the heavy-duty, FBI-issued vehicle in the back bumper en route. The jarring impact threw the two agents forward in their seats with loud grunts and coughs, but the slight vehicle did little more damage than that.

"You okay, Sweets?" Booth asked in a low voice. The psychologist nodded a few times before vocalizing his answer.

'Yeah, yeah, fine." He coughed and rubbed at his sore chest from the seatbelt impact. "But I wonder what that was about."

"Maybe the truck got too close? It should be fine now." He glanced back in the mirror to see the steaming lawyer jump out relatively uninjured from her car and kick the scratched sides of the vehicle a few times. He looked back at the driver of the truck, which was getting unnervingly close to their own vehicle. The blinds concealed most of the man's face, but he could see his mouth twisted into a grim slash of determination. Only one hand was firmly on the wheel while the driver's left arm was hanging loosely by his side.

Based on the wide, darting gaze of the psychologist beside him, Sweets was coming to a similar conclusion that the truck driver wasn't planning on slowing down anytime soon either. The truck was so close behind them that Booth could make out a long, fresh scratch along the trucker's chin and he could feel the rumble of the eighteen-wheeler behind them. While one hand tightened significantly on the wheel to the point where his bloodless knuckles glowed white, the other arm shot out instinctively across Sweets' chest to act as a secondary restraint, similar to what he would have done if Parker was sitting in the passenger seat next to him. Moments later, the truck slammed in the back of the black SUV. The shudder that ran through the latter vehicle was almost as terrible as the sickening, heavy smell of gasoline and the crinkling noise that came from the back seat and trunk folding inwards, accordion style. Booth and Sweets were both thrown against their seat restraints with loud grunts, but even those weren't strong enough to hold them back completely. The older agent struck his head against the steering wheel, causing his vision to flicker between bursts of vivid white to pitch blackness. For some reason, his airbag refused to deploy and he was forced to lean his sticky, pulsing head against the still turning wheel. Luckily the impact of the track behind them had stunted the motor into a stop, otherwise, Booth had no idea how he was to steer the damaged vehicle in his condition.

He was certain he had a burn or a bruise from being thrown against the seat restraints so forcefully. The agent could only choke out dry whispers. "Sweets?" he whispered in a hoarse voice. Booth sluggishly turned his gaze to the still young man beside him. Although the boy's airbag had deployed, he was still bleeding profusely from a spot on his forehead that was partially concealed by his slick, sticky curly hair. The blood trail dribbled lazily down the side of his face, beside one closed eye, and onto the stark while airbag.

"Sweets?" Booth managed to choke out again. The young man was clearly unconscious, but the faint rise and fall of his chest indicated that he was still breathing relatively regular. "Just hold on," he murmured, more to reassure his own fading self than the psychologist beside him. He strained his properly functioning ear to hear for the sounds of sirens, but all he could hear was the crunching sound of someone ominously stepping on broken windshield glass. Booth tried to turn his head to see who was coming, but exhaustion weighed too heavily in his bones. He pried his drooping eyelids back open, but darkness swirled in the back of his head and threatened to send him into unconsciousness as well.

The crumpled remains of the vehicle shuddered slightly as a high-pitched squealed grated harshly against Booth's good ear. Someone was opening the passenger side door. He tilted his head to see who it was, but the action sent more dark shadows rushing through his vision. Booth was barely conscious when he saw something greenish glint dully in the sun and slice through Sweets' deployed airbag. He was unconscious before the air completely leaked out of the safety device.

* * *

Booth awoke to soft, indiscernible muttering and a bright burst of light behind one of his closed eyelids. He squeezed both eyelids further shut, hoping maybe they could block out the light, but a gentle tug on his eyelid prompted him to crack open an eye. Someone was shining an annoying bright flashlight in his eyes. He wanted to push them away, but his brain had yet to send the message to his hands to move. Booth slowly pried his other eye open, cringing at the painful glow of the so very white room around him. It took him a while to adjust, but he was able to figure out he was in a hospital for some odd reason.

Fuzzy gray images flashed through his mind. _Angry lawyer in a hybrid. A pirate ship. Scratch along his chin. The truck. Sweets!_

Booth nearly bolted upright, but one of the paramedics, most likely the one with the flashlight, held him down in a lying position.

"You had a minor concussion, Agent Seeley Booth. You may want to take it easy."

Booth brought a hand up to his sore face and rubbed at his eyes. He could sense the presence of other people in the room. The agent glanced to the side and felt a relieved smile crack across his lips.

"Hey, Bones." His gaze darted to the person standing beside her. "Cam."

Brennan tried to smile back, but her eyes were still slightly anxious. "Despite my numerous credentials regarding the human body, they refused to let me see you until you were conscious. They even refused to allow Doctor Saroyan in." Brennan paused and gave her partner a shaky smile. "I am glad to see you are okay."

"Nothing a few painkillers won't fix." Booth eased himself into a reclined position, much to the indignation of the tiny nurse beside him. "Thanks for coming, but, uh, what exactly happened?"

Doctor Brennan's tightly pursed lips revealed her worry for her partner, even if she wouldn't outright say it. "You can't remember? The doctors were nearly positive you did not suffer any form of amnesia."

Booth shook his head, which turned out to be a terrible mistake. "No, ugh, Jesus Christ," he paused for a moment to let the rattling in his skull die down. "I meant, what happened after the accident?"

"The paramedics were on the scene within minutes and took you to the hospital."

"I mean what happened to Sweets. Is the kid all right? He was banged up pretty badly."

Doctor Brennan frowned and slowly shook her head in confusion. Cam bit her lip nervously. "Sweets wasn't in the vehicle by the time the ambulance arrived. We assumed you had dropped him off before the accident."

Booth's lower lip dropped slightly from the response. "What? I had just gotten off the phone with Hodgins! Your Bugboy had just crowned Sweets 'King of the Lab.'"

"Hodgins said he was on the phone with them," Cam exchanged a knowing glance with Brennan, "but he didn't know when the accident happened. He thought it had happened much later."

The FBI agent adjusted himself roughly so he was sitting up completely. "So you're telling me we have a missing shrink?"

"He could be listed under John Doe." Cam was immediately on the phone with the main desk, inquiring about any nameless young adults recently admitted, but her grave expression already foreboded the unwelcome answer.

"Perhaps Doctor Sweets was not as injured as you perceived. You injury must have compromised your sight, Booth. Sweets may not have needed to be hospitalized."

"He was _unconscious_, Bones. I saw someone cut him out of the airbag before I blacked out myself."

"Thanks." The coroner slowly made her way back to the partners. "They said there have been no John Does admitted from a traffic accident," Cam announced, slamming her phone closed.

Brennan was still caught on what Booth had said previously. "What? Could you repeat that?"

"I said, he was unconscious."

"No, the other part."

Booth frowned, repeated the phrase in his head before he said it aloud again. "Someone cut Sweets out of the car before I blacked out."

"Your minor concussion would have caused you to lose consciousness within moments of impact. He or she must have already been at the scene of the accident."

"Can you remember anything about him or her?"

Booth squeezed his sore eyes tightly shut and breathed twice through his mouth. He pinched the bridge of his nose as he tried to dive back in his murky memories. An icy chill ran through his veins when he found the answer. The FBI agent dropped his hand and his wide eyes popped open. "He had a scratch on his chin. He was the driver of the truck."

* * *

Oh, gosh... The OOC-ness! It's running rampant!  
Oh, and _pirates_ xD**  
Thanks for reading! I'd really appreciate feedback. **


	2. Chapter 2

**Timeframe/Info About This Fic: **I suppose anytime in Season 8  
**Disclaimer:** Bones and its characters belong to their rightful owners.  
**Authors Note: **I bet you guys thought I was never going to get to this xD Hopefully you like this chapter :)

Special thanks to the awesome reviewers who have left wonderful and encouraging comments and everyone who has favorite or followed this :D Thanks especially to** AutumnOlivia, Joanne Novak, samseaster, DarkMousyRulezAll, darkorangecat, iheartlife, **and a very wonderful **Guest (**who I'm not sure if he/she is the same guest who had commented on my other works since he/she called me "M" in both of them, but thank you regardless.)

* * *

There was a beat of silence after Booth repeated his revelation to the rest of the squints.

Hodgins frowned. "Are you sure? I mean, you had a concussion, man."

Booth's own expression mirrored Hodgins' deep frown. "I'm sure." He groaned and brought his hands up to his eyes and rubbed at his sore eyelids roughly, as if when he dropped his hands, the gawky psychologist would be standing in front of him. His cold hands fell to his side and the agent suppressed a sigh. _No such luck. _

Brennan frowned and regarded her partner with a worried stare. "Although the doctors at the hospital cleared you from any lasting brain damage, it is entirely possible that they made a mistake. Perhaps what you saw was only your brain trying to rationalize someone assisting Dr. Sweets and yourself."

Booth shook his head and for the umpteenth time proceeded to retell his story. "I'm perfectly fine, Bones. The accident really was just barely more than a fender bender." The special agent pinched two fingers together in the air to further convince them.

"Two-thirds of the back seat was crushed and then soaked in your vehicle's own gasoline from a ruptured fuel tank. After the site of impact is searched for any helpful particulates or indications that would lead us to your assailant, the truck will be immediately sent to a federal scrap site." One of Brennan's dark eyebrows arched high across her scrunched forehead. "I doubt this is what you could consider a slender fender."

"Ah, it's called a fender _bender_ and they're scraping my car? Seriously?" _Wait a second—what is wrong with you?_ _Snap out of it, Seeley. It's just a car. Think about Sweets—he's the one who's in trouble. _"Uh, that's beside the point. What I mean to say is, I know what I saw. The driver of the truck had a scratch across his chin." Booth drew an invisible line across his chin to give them an approximation of the injury. "I saw him as he pried Sweets out of the car and then I blacked out." He scanned the concerned faces surrounding him. However, they seemed to be more worried about Booth's potential brain damage than the scratch on the trucker's chin. "I'm serious—this guy is who we need to be checking out if we want to find Sweets fast."

Although it was obvious that the others still weren't one hundred percent convinced that Booth was thinking rationally, they decided to humor him at the least.

"I'll go, uh, check out Booth's vehicle and check for any type of particulates," Hodgins took a cautious step backwards and disappeared from the room. Doctor Brennan frowned and almost called the entomologist back to chastise him for quickly dismissing their currently unsolved murder case, but then she realized it was imperative for the ginger to search the SUV if they wanted a clue as to where one of their own had been taken. For once, she decided that it wasn't an unacceptable thing for Hodgins to take a minor break from the murder investigation in order to save their baby duckling. However, since a full body skeleton hadn't been conveniently left at the site of the accident, Brennan was unable to see how she could assist the search for Doctor Sweets and decided to return to the murder of the Smithsonian curator. She hastily excused herself after locking gazes with Booth, searching one last time to see if he was fine.

Cam glanced between Angela and Booth and sighed. "I suppose I won't be much help either to you. I might as well return to the case."

Booth nodded and sent the pathologist a shaky smile. "We'll let you know if anything comes up."

Cam returned the smile and followed Dr. Brennan out of the room. Booth turned back to Angela and raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"D'you think you can find anything squinty for me?"

Angela smiled mischievously. "I've been working on a few programs that might help us out."

* * *

"So, what can you show me?" Booth clasped his hands together with a muted _clap. _He glanced out of the corner of his eye to see Angela smirking as she pressed a few buttons on her remote. Booth surveyed the room quickly as the tech master was pulling everything up on her multiple screens. It had been a while since the last time he was in Angela's office, but the overwhelming amount of special technology always seemed to amaze him.

Loud beepings erupted from the center screen and Booth's attention jerked sharply towards the pixelating image forming on the screen. "Uh, what's that?"

"Just wait a moment as I clean it up a bit…" Angela tilted her body to the side as she pressed a few more buttons on her remote. Instantly the pixels on the screen congealed into a clear image of moving traffic.

"Hey!" Booth pointed to the concrete bridge on the screen. "That's the overpass where the accident happened." He turned back to Angela. "How are you getting this?"

"I hacked into some nearby surveillance cameras." Angela glanced back down at her remote and hit a few more buttons. Instantly the screen went fuzzy and gray.

"Woah, what happened?"

"I'm trying to access past video files. Hopefully they haven't been automatically cleared yet from the database and we'll be able to see the actually accident happen."

Booth grinned. "Wow, Angela. If you could get that, we'll see who took Sweets and where they went."

"And it looks like we'll get 'em," Angela grinned back as footage from the accident appeared on the screen. One various screens, Angela tracked the movement of Booth's undamaged, black SUV as it sped down the highway.

"There we are," Booth started the play-by-play. As the vehicle passed an exit signed, the special agent nodded along. "We just got off the phone with Hodgins." He smirked at the sight of the aggressive smartcar driver. They followed along for another few moments when Booth stiffened beside Angela.

"Are we coming up to it?" the young woman murmured softly.

Booth's head bobbed sharply.

Angela turned back to the screen with a frown. Seconds later a rather nondescript truck appeared, painted gray with a dull and chipped maroon cab. The driver of the truck was nothing if not determined. Only moments after it appeared on the main screen, it roughly tipped the corner of the smartcar, sending it spinning into Booth's SUV and finally into a guardrail.

Angela gasped and Booth's frown grew taunt. "It gets worse," he muttered.

After it had removed its ecologically friendly roadblock, the truck continued to barrel towards the SUV where Booth and Sweets were no doubt panicking in. From the camera view, Booth could see that he had actually tried to accelerate in order to get out of the path of the truck but it was no use. Although sound was disabled on the security cameras, both Booth and Angela cringed visibly as the truck slammed into the SUV, the sound effects already playing in their minds.

Watching the not so accidental accident from above was an odd experience for Booth. He knew he was in the vehicle, but it was still hard to believe. The special agent almost closed his eyes as his car locked its brakes as the truck pushed it to a grating standstill. Other cars swirled around the SUV and the truck, trying desperately not to collide with them. However, no outside vehicle pulled over to assist them, shooting down the theory that a well-placed ambulance had already been on the scene.

"Look, he's getting out of the truck." Angela gestured at the screen. Her dark eyes were wide as she absorbed every detail that skirted across the screen.

"Can you zoom in any?" Booth glanced at the tech whiz beside him. She licked her lips and a determined frown formed on her lips.

"I think I can, but it'll destroy the quality." She pressed a few keys on her remote and the scene jumped forward. As Angela had predicted, the quality was atrocious, but the two were able to discern the shifting blur that served as the truck driver. If Booth squinted, he could see the vague outline of himself and Sweets slumped in the front seat. The trucker slunk towards the slightly smoking SUV and approached the passenger side. With one hand, he wrenched the undamaged door open; Booth growled slightly under his breath as the driver's arm reached into the car and proceeded to pull out a darkly shaded blob. However, the trucker was having obvious difficulty with removing the inflated airbag from Sweets' side. He lifted his other arm to assist and the two crime fighters gasped.

"What?"

"No! It can't be!"

Just then, Hodgins burst into the room with his usual, miraculous timing. His wide blue eyes darted between Booth and Angela. "You won't believe what I found!"

* * *

Although Cam and Caroline worked from both angles to give the Jeffersonian full access to Booth's mangled SUV, because it fell into the domain of a missing person case instead of being directly related to the murder of the Jeffersonian artifact curator, the FBI announced its intentions to confiscate the vehicle. Hodgins only had about thirty minutes before the feds would burst into the lab for their investigation. Hodgins made a face on his way to the vehicle, which was situated somewhere on a platform in the Jeffersonian. _How am I supposed to help Sweets when all those suits are crawling over the evidence? _Hodgins' scowl deepened.

_Why Sweets in the first place?_

The ginger chewed on his bottom lip pensively. If what Booth was saying was correct, then there was no doubt that the "accident" was on purpose and their youngest team member was in danger.

"He's still too young to cross the street without someone holding his hand," Hodgins grumbled under his breath. The young doctor let out a nervous laugh the moment he saw the crushed FBI-issued vehicle. He thought Dr. Brennan had been at first exaggerating about the condition of Booth's vehicle because she was concerned, but then he realized the ever rational Brennan was hardly capable of blowing things out of proportion. Everything she described about the mangled SUV was true. Hodgins stepped closer to the accordion-style crushed backseat and wrinkled his nose at the smell of spoiled gasoline. In that moment, he was grateful that Dr. Brennan had changed her mind earlier that morning and decided not to join Booth and Sweets on their investigation to instead go over the bones of the murdered curator again. If all three of them had been in the van at the time of the "accident," the person in the back seat, who would have certainly been Sweets, would have been instantaneously buried amongst the shredded and gas stained metal. Hodgins suppressed a shudder and smiled wryly at the wreck. _Though, this isn't much better than being kidnapped. _

He turned away from the backseat and focused on the passenger side of the SUV where Sweets had been dragged out. He quickly pulled on a set of rubber gloves and dropped to one knee by the wrenched door handle. The particulate master pulled out a miniature container of print dust and layered the gray flakes heavily over the door handle.

_No sense waiting for the feds to get this. _He was able to pull off two different prints, though there was a high possibility that one belonged to Sweets and the other belonged to Brennan. Regardless, he straightened up, set the two strips aside to give to Angela, and clapped his hands together to remove the rest of the gray particles. Out of the corner of his eye, Hodgins saw the tip of the shredded airbag and frowned.

"Booth said he was cut out of the airbag," the entomologist mused out loud. "Perhaps the blade left behind some trace that can help us ID the weapon…"

He leaned forward and his frown turned into a puzzled gawp. "Green?" Hodgins blinked again, making sure he was seeing the trace reside correctly. "What kind of blade would leave _green_ particulates?" The confused frown returned to his face. "And why are the particulates so _large?_" Hodgins brought his clasped hands to his mouth in thought.

_The green could come from an oxidized copper blade…? _Hodgins dismissed the idea immediately. _No, then I wouldn't be able to see the particulates until I put it under the Mass Spec. These particles must've fallen off the blade as the kidnapped was sawing through it. _Hodgins inspected the actual tear of the airbag. "Though, it looks more like a slash than a jagged tear," he murmured softly. Hodgins reach forward and slid his finger along the edge of the frayed edge. He removed his hand and glanced down at his green tipped finger.

_It falls off almost like…rust?_ The ginger froze. _No…_ In a flurry of motion and grunts, the entomologist was over by the microscope peering at the mysterious compound.

"I don't believe this," he muttered. His blue eyes darted back and forth in their respective eye windows. The doctor's mouth parted in a shocked "oh" as he stared at the basic composition of the particulate. In a small dish marked "green neck particulates" was the small bits of trace that had come from the victim's fatal injury. Hodgins grabbed the dish beside him and studied some of its contents under the microscope. The images from the airbag and the injury were nearly identical in every single aspect. The entomologist didn't officially run both samples through the Mass Spec to confirm their similarity, but Hodgins was fairly certain that both of the green rust traces came from the same weapon. He spun around towards his computer screen and hurriedly rattled a few keys. On screen appeared other images of artifacts found near the coast of Santa Marzda. Hodgins' gut twisted sharply (though he couldn't decide if it was from worry or incredulity) as he absorbed the green coated images on the screen. Each weapon that had been retrieved from the choleric, warm bay was infested with rust that matched the exact color of both of his samples.

Not wasting any time, Hodgins quickly grabbed his two samples and ran through the lab back to Angela's office. He burst in the door, slightly breathless, and held up the two covered petri dishes.

"You won't believe what I found!" Hodgins' shinning bright blue gaze drifted towards the screen and he frowned. With his free hand, he gestured towards the image and stepped closer towards the main screen.

"That's _the_ hook." Hodgins glanced around at the equally shocked Booth and Angela. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but Sweets was kidnapped by the _pirate_ murderer."

* * *

When he started to regain consciousness, Sweets was vaguely aware of a dull pulsing in the side of his head and a faint light above him. He slowly pried his eyes the rest of the way open and groaned. His vision was still swimming painfully, so it was a few moments before he was able to accurately gauge his surroundings. He wasn't par

The young psychologist promptly groaned again.

_I don't believe it._ He glanced up at the skylight above him and frowned at the pale moon illuminating the unfortunately familiar room he was currently inhabiting.

_I was right. This room is creepier at night,_ Sweets shuddered slightly. He brought his gaze down from the large windows on the ceiling and slowly swept the room with wide eyes. Around him were darkened display cases which he knew held handfuls of stolen pieces of submerged gold and jewels and enough rusted swords to last an armory.

For a brief, embarrassing moment, the young man wondered where the pirate ship was. _I mean, it was huge. They couldn't have moved it._ Then the color rushed to the psychologist's face as he realized he was perched on top of the ship. Sweets was grateful that no one was able to hear his dumb musings. He looked blankly over the edge of the ship and noted with a drop in his gut that he was probably a few stories in the air.

Sweets leaned his head back in exasperation and general "I don't even believe this"-ness but hissed at the sharp stab of pain that surged through his temple. The jolt of pain caused the young man to jump.

_The accident!_ Sweets tried to get up, but a metallic clanging kept him firmly rooted to the spot. His gaze darted down to his wrists and he suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. Very old and rusted manacles were clasped around the young psychologist's wrists and rattled every time the young man shifted his hands. His shoulders burned slightly due to the fact that they were drawn tightly behind him. Sweets' arms seemed to have been locked around a large wooden pole.

The young man's once buried knowledge about piracy resurfaced like a ghost.

_I'm tied to a pirate ship mast. _The severity of the situation had yet to reach the young psychologist, even though his head was still pounding and something wet was pooling in his hair.

Sweets closed his eyes and reopened them, as if that simple act would wake him up from this strange dream. He frowned at the dark, eerie room around him.

_Now I'm starting to get a bit freaked out by all of this. _Sweets signed loudly and tried to backtrack through what he could remember.

_Agent Booth and I were here investigating the murder of the Jeffersonian rare artifact curator. Then in the car Hodgins said the murderer used the stolen pirate hook to kill the curator. But…then…_ Sweets hesitated and squeezed his eyes shut again. _Then that truck ran into us. _Sweets tried to jerk forward again, but the only purpose that served was to make his shoulders burn even more. _Booth! Is he okay? His…his airbag didn't go off—he must've hit his head directly on the steering wheel. _A warm feeling beat faintly in Sweets' chest. _But he tried to keep me from hitting the dashboard with his own arm. _Sweets was touched by the parental act, though he wasn't sure how he was able to remember that, yet he couldn't figure out how he got handcuffed to a barnacle covered pirate ship. 

The sound of a door slamming caused Sweets to jump. Loud footsteps echoed down the hall and Sweets knew it was only a matter of moments until his assailant found him. He pressed his body further against the mast and tried to calm down his rapid fire heartbeat. _God, Lance…_ The young man chastised himself for being so shaky. _It's just a regular person—there are no such things as modern day pirates. Whoever kidnapped you is only an irrational human being who is infatuated with the idea of piracy. _This did not make the young psychologist feel any better. The door to the exhibit swung open with a loud squeal and Sweets shivered in the dark room and a gust of chilly wind breezed through the open door.

In the faint light of the hallway, Sweets could see the vague profile of his attacker. The large, bulky size of the shadow confirmed Sweets' beliefs that his kidnapper was the driver of the truck. His wide gaze dropped firmly onto the man's loosely swinging arm and a faint squeak broke from his throat. Instead of a functioning hand on the edge of his arm, a shiny, sharp hook poked out of the tattered sleeve.

_Oh man… Booth, please come find me._

* * *

**So, you like? Please let me know :D** **Thanks for the support!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** Bones and its characters belong to their rightful owners.  
**Authors Note: **Ack! Sorry for the late update. I've just been so busy with school (it started up just this previous week D:) and I haven't had time to update any of my stories properly. This story in particular is a priority, since Season 9 airs in three days! Whoot! Whoot!

Special thanks to all of you awesome reviewers: **DarkMousyRulezAll, iheartlife, darkorangecat, AutumnOlivia, danamontana, gracewright, ladykale1985, **and **Guest.** You guys are all amazing! :D

* * *

"Angela," Booth spun on his feet, pinning down the computer whiz with his wide brown eyes. "I need an identity of our truck driver _now."_

The young woman nodded. "Right. On it." She glanced from her controls to her screens with quick, darting looks and licked her lips nervously.

Booth turned back to Hodgins. "Could you find any prints? Did he leave anything else behind?"

Hodgins set the two petri dishes on the nearest table and shook his head ruefully. "No, sorry, the only prints I found on the handle belonged to Doctor B. and Sweets. He must've opened it with his…hook." He raised his hands weakly to waist-level and dropped them heavily back to his sides. "The only thing I found was the particulates that linked him to the previous murder…but that doesn't rea—wait." The man's thoughtful gaze strayed back to a minor screen beside them. Hodgins' blue eyes lit up as a thought struck him.

"What is it, Hodgins?"

The entomologist gestured at the frozen image of a gray blob kneeling by Booth's mangled SUV. "Look. He's holding onto the side of the vehicle in order to stabilize himself." Booth squinted at the grainy image and nodded slowly. Sure enough, he could make out a faint blur of gray on the roof of his car where the man's hand would have been.

"He might've left some prints there. We wouldn't have been able to get any from the door handle since he…uh, opened it with his hook" Hodgins repeated with an odd expression, as if he still couldn't believe what he was currently saying. "I only found particulates there. But his real hand _touched _the side of the SUV." A loud bang announced the sudden arrival of the clumsier investigators from the Bureau.

"Aw man… Are you serious? _Now _they decide to be punctual?" Hodgins muttered under his breath. His once electric expression faded into a sneer of mild distaste. The young man's shoulders slumped at the prospect of sharing the piece of evidence. He brought his hands to his face and suppressed a loud groan.

"What?"

"Your suits won't let me near the vehicle." He sent a hostile glare towards the FBI special agent through a gap in his fingers. "They'll rip it apart before I can dust for more particulates." The entomologist's voice was muffled and clearly disdainful.

Without even tearing her eyes from her modifications and calculations, Angela spoke up for the first time. "But didn't you just prove that the murder and Sweets' kidnapping were _connected_?"

"Oohh…" Hodgins dropped his hands and peered at his wife. "That would give us—"

_"What!?"_

Angela finally pulled her gaze from her whirling computer screens to glare at the entomologist. "Shouldn't you go get _Cam?"_

"Right!" The ginger doctor started suddenly. "Cam. Go find Cam. Murder. Sweets. _Cam_!" He turned on his heels, practically running out of Angela's office, bawling "Dr. Saroyaaaaan" as he went along.

"Would you mind explaining?" Booth asked again with a scowl, starting to feel a little cross at the combination of missing a teammate and being left of the Jeffersonian loop.

Angela returned her focus back to her flashing screens but graced the FBI agent with an answer. "We were only able to have access with your old SUV until your people took it over as evidence for an investigation regarding a federal agent. But since Hodgins proved the two crimes were connected—Sweets and the murder—we can claim back your SUV. Murder investigations always take priority over abductions. At least at the Jeffersonian they do. By the time Cam gets through with them, Hodgins'll have enough time to do, you know-"

"His bug and dust stuff," Booth finished and turned back to what Angela had pulled up on her screens. "Did you find anything? It looks like you just zoomed out."

The computer genius sent the federal agent a withering glare. "I didn't just 'zoom out.' I applied a filter, doctored the images, _and_ combined multiple stills to provide a relatively three-dimensional image." With a click on her control pad, the screenshot of the accident seemed to unfold outwards and upwards on the screen to form a sort of holographic box on the screen.

Booth suppressed a gasp. "Woah."

"Yeah," a slow smile flickered across the woman's face. "No 3-D glasses required."

"Were you able to get a better picture of who took Sweets?"

"Now, I wasn't able to get a readable face from our pirate, but I _can_ get the next best thing." Angela's tongue subconsciously flicked the corner of her lips as she concentrated on the lifelike image. "Look at the truck—maybe we can get information from it."

The federal agent nodded slowly. "I see where you're going. If we can get its information, we might figure out who it belonged to. I doubt our Captain Plunder was the owner of it, but we can find out who he stole it from."

Angela's dark eyes scanned the three-dimensional tractor trailer on the screen. "It looks like…the truck was from…Barrie trucking."

"The _book _store chain?"

Angela shrugged. "Hey, he just needed something big. This certainly fits the picture."

Booth's gaze returned to the screen. "It could take them weeks to sort through their driver claims. Barrie is a big company—it's there anything else you can get me?"

The young woman suppressed a confident smirk. "How about the company's personalized ID tag on the truck?"

Booth felt his jaw drop. "Angela, you are amazing."

"I know," the brunette smiled as she zoomed in on the modified image of the truck. Both of the crime solvers stared at the blurry gray numbers on the side of the cab in silence before Angela entered a few keys that reduced the fuzz and presented a legible code.

"JBR12271904," Booth murmured aloud as Angela navigated to the Barrie database. "The JBR stands for the company. Can you get anything from the numbers?"

"Once I hack into their network, I can see who was last assigned to this particular truck and then you can go do _your_ stuff, big guy."

Booth nodded uncertainly. "Most likely the truck will have been stolen. Captain Murder already stole the hook—based on what Sweets had said earlier in the van," Booth paused, "it's likely that he stole the truck as well." Booth groaned and rubbed at his eyes. Although he had repeatedly assured his partner that he wasn't facing any ill-effects from the concussion, his brain still felt like it was pounding in his ears. "If the original driver put up a fight, we might be dealing with a double homicide." Booth felt an uncomfortable twist in his gut. _And that's not even counting what that monster might have already done to Sweets._

"Here—I got this guy's information. He's uh, a John Davy. Huh, from the D.C. area, too. They even have a pic—wait…uh oh…. Didn't you say the truck driver had a scar on his chin?"

Booth looked up at the painfully familiar image of the driver and groaned again. For perhaps the fifth time that case, the federal agent uttered another "I don't believe this…"

* * *

For roughly half a second, Sweets had the inane idea that if he stayed completely silent and pressed himself further into the mast, perhaps the pirate-murder wouldn't see him. Perhaps he had already forgotten about his prisoner.

No such luck. As Sweets tried to adjust himself into as small of a shadow as possible, his shackles jangled loudly. The young man glared heavenward with mashed lips in order to stop himself from muttering a few choice words. From the shadow where the psychologist could discern the faint outline of a man with a hook a distant laughter rumbled. Sweets winced and tried to suppress the shudders that were tingling up and down his back.

"It seems we have a stowaway on our ship."

A cloud sailed slowly across the moon and darkened the exhibit room. Sweets closed his eyes and sighed softly under his breath. _If he starts on the pirate jokes, kill me now. _A creaking sound echoed below him and it sounded as if his kidnapper was attempting to board the ship. Sweets' eyes popped open immediately and he glanced around the dark room with wide, unseeing eyes. The cloud had yet to move and the automatic light from the hallway had switched off.

He was alone.

In the dark.

With a potentially deranged killer who possessed a complete and utter obsession with pirates. Hook or no hook, Sweets was not in a very savory position.

A louder creaking sounded to the young man's left. His spine stiffened considerably as he stared blankly with desperate eyes over his shoulder. The mast was too large to see around and the room was too dark to make anything out clearly, but his ears were still functioning. He held his breath, ignoring the fierce pounding in his chest, and waited for something to happen. From perhaps ten feet away, he heard a faint groan—not of ancient wood, but from an exerting man. There was a slight thump and labored breathing as the man recovered from his ascent. Sweets frowned slightly. He hadn't remembered stairs or a ladder by the exhibit when he and Booth had visited previously that day. His assailant must have come by scaling the side of the ship—which, for some reason, did not make the young psychologist feel any better.

_All right. Think like Agent Booth. This guy has to be totally strong to climb up the side of this ship. _Sweets paused and frowned mid-thought. _Wait a minute. How did _I_ get up here then?_ The psychologist pictured the dizzying multistory drop below him. _Oh man… He must be _really_ strong then._

The young man's assailant had steadied his breathing, but Sweets could hear the metallic rattling to his left as the larger man rustled through various objects, trying to find something specific. There was a light grunt and then a faint hiss as it sounded like a match striking a rough surface. Immediately a light exploded in Sweet's peripheral vision, stunning the young man for a moment. The sudden flash momentarily blinded the doctor and he averted his gaze with his left eye scrunched closed.

After a moment of acclimation, Sweets slowly lifted his stare to face his assailant. The murder had transferred the lighted match to a possibly antique sallow candle, which lit the man's scarred face with a sickly, pale glow. Sweets greedily absorbed every detail of the man, judging by the shallow guttering of the candle that he only had a few moments of light. The psychologist was fairly surprised to note that his kidnapper was not significantly older than he was—perhaps only a year or two his senior, judging by first appearances. The long, snaking scar down the older man's chin confirmed that he had been the truck driver who had nearly run them over previously that day. Perhaps either self-conscious about his marring or merely itchy, the murder slowly raised his hook to his face and positioned it right over his scar. The sharp glint of the few scraps of corroded metal seemed to stab Sweets directly in the eyes. He lowered his gaze, both from pain and a feeling of sickly uneasiness. The psychologist hadn't been imagining it; the man in front of him truly possessed a hook instead of a hand. However, the hook wasn't the only thing that was bothering the young man. Something about the man's wide, glittering eyes seemed vaguely familiar, but Sweets was unable to recall why at the moment.

"Don't you remember me, Lance?"

Icy needles prickled down Sweets' neck and spine and the young man stiffened dramatically, ignoring the slight jangle of the manacles behind him. _It can't be…_ The psychologist's dark, wide eyes scraped as forcefully as any hook across the man's face.

"J-Jack…?"

The man smiled wildly, revealing a mouthful of uneven teeth.

* * *

"This is Agent Booth of the FBI. Open up," the man demanded, holding his weapon tightly with bloodless knuckles. He was standing with raised hackles in front of the most recent address of a certain John Davy, who was currently the first and only suspect in the murder of an artifact dealer and the kidnapping of a federal agent. Booth counted slowly to three before kicking the already dilapidated apartment door down. He rushed inside the room, followed by several of his own hand-picked agents.

The muscular federal agent muttered a few light curses under his breath at the uninhabited room. The window wasn't even open—evidently Davy hadn't recently fled the scene; he had been gone most likely since the accident.

"Sir, what should we look for?" a small voice piped up at Booth's side.

Booth surveyed the room with a sigh and ran a jerking hand through his short hair. "Uh, anything that could possibly tell us where he has Sweets." Agent Shaw nodded dutifully. She had been one of the first agents to volunteer for the almost unofficial mission. "Let me know if you find something." The petite agent nodded again and disappeared around one of the corners of the apartment.

Seeing his partners all engaged in some aspect of the search, Booth decided to phone back to the Jeffersonian and see if anything else had been discovered.

"Angela? Did you find anything on Davy for me?"

"Uh, I'm still working on that—but everyone else found something for you." Angela's voice sounded distant as if she was far from her cell phone. Hodgins' loud voice suddenly poured out of the speakers and Booth had to hold the phone away with a wince. Evidently the entomologist was bad at using speaker phones.

"Hey, I did actually find some prints on your SUV right in that spot where the pirate-murder's hand was." Booth winced at Hodgins' term for Sweets' kidnapper. "But unfortunately Angie wasn't able to find a match for him in the system."

"He's clean so far and his prints aren't in any federal database," his wife added from what sounded like across the room.

"But good news—the fingerprint from the roof of the car matched sort of to a partial print on the dead artifact guy."

"Partial? _Sort_ of?"

"Well, it was a partial print. What do you expe—"

"Anyway, Dr. Brennan also found something," Angela interrupted her indignant husband quickly.

"What'd she find?"

"Uh, she said—what?—that the man was—_say that again_—wearing the hook—wait, we _knew_ that already, Sweetie." Another muffled female voice from Doctor Brennan could be heard through the phone as well.

Booth's forehead furled in confusion. "Can you just put Bones on the phone?"

"Gladly," Angela sighed exhaustedly. Evidently the forensic anthropologist had already previously attempted to explain her find, but the artist simply didn't get it.

"Booth?"

"Hey! Bones! What'dya got for me? Good news, hopefully."

Brennan's monotonic and calculating voice filled Booth's ears. "Based on the depth of the bone damage, the weapon—"

"The hook," Booth interjected.

"Ye-es," Brennan answered slowly, slightly irritated at being interrupted. "The weapon severely damaged the hyoid and went deep enough to leave indentations on the C4 and C5 vertebrae."

"Meaning…?"

"The murder was wearing the hook when he killed Artice Jones."

"Sorry, Bones, but I already had that in my notes."

"I doubt you took time to prepare notes on this case," Brennan stated blankly. Booth rolled his eyes up to the ceiling and suppressed a sigh. He wandered over absently to a coverless table with a few dusty frames perched on top. "Besides, I don't think you understand what I'm saying."

"Alright…?"

"Hodgins confirmed the calculations. The force required to damage the C4 and C5 vertebrae so severely is extremely huge. It would have been necessary for the hook to be securely fastened onto the murderer's arm. If he simply placed it over his arm, the weapon would have been unable to cause such major damage because it would have been secured well enough. Therefore, your murderer does not possess a left hand."

Booth froze in the middle of inspecting one of the frames. "Wait, so you're telling me that whoever took Sweets actually has to wear a hook because he doesn't have a real hand?"

"Amputees and those born without certain appendages are not forced by society to hide the—"

"Thanks, Bones," Booth cut his partner off again. "Hey, did Angela ever get any more information on Davy?"

There was faint chatter on the other side of the phone line as Brennan was no doubt discussing Booth's question with her best friend.

"I'll return the phone to Angela," Brennan announced. However, she hesitated and Booth could hear the woman's uncertain breathing. "Bring Sweets back," she stated firmly before handing the mobile device back to Angela.

Booth swallowed nervously and directed his gaze towards the last photo frame on the table. Unlike the others, this silver frame was carefully dusted and the picture inside was protected by a thick sheet of glass.

"Tell me you found something on Davy."

Curious as to why this particular photo was treated so differently from the others, Booth picked it up gently and carefully scrutinized the image.

"Well, he doesn't have a record for his adult years, but quite a few bad things happened in his childhood."

"Like sealed record bad?"

There was something off about the photo. The image itself was innocent enough. A taller boy dressed in a tattered red coat held a cardboard sword at his partner's throat with a triumphant smirk. The other child was a smaller, slender boy in a green cap with a wide grin. The older child couldn't have been more than eight and the younger was only four or five. After studying the older boy for a few moments, Booth slowly came to the conclusion that the child was Davy.

"Not exactly. He was what you could consider a veteran of the system. Bounced around in fifteen or so homes before he was adopted by a—wait, never mind. False alarm. Make that sixteen homes."

Booth squinted at the younger child's wide smile and suddenly everything seemed to whirl in realization. Where had Booth seen that goofy, lopsided grin and those shinning chocolate eyes before? Across the coffee table and at the Diner. Especially when someone complimented a certain psychologist's work.

_Oh no…_

"I know how Sweets is involved."

* * *

Oh, gosh. I'm so rotten at writing Dr. B. D:  
**I hope you enjoyed it! :D**


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